The Old Colour Catcher

The Old Colour Catcher

Over blue meadows and fields of green,

where it is possible to see things that aren't seen,

in my perception of distance I thought I could glean

the far off impression of a man on a flying machine.

I was perplexed, the image was a real head-scratcher,

I thought for a moment I'd seen the Old Colour Catcher.

But I thought he was just a myth from a story,

I never believed he could actually BE!

But there, coming up close to pass me,

flew the legend himself, so close I could see

his belt, his hat, his goggles and gloves,

socks pulled up high, white sails like doves.

He hailed me, and called out my name;

somehow he knew me, this man of such fame.

“Good morning, William!” he called as he flew by soaring.

I waved in amazement, as as hour ago I'd been snoring.

“I can't stop just now, I'm on a mission, my man,

but come with me won't you, hitch a lift if you can!”

He lowered a tow, which swung passed my grope,

and without thought to consider or even to hope,

I was attached to this marvel, tied on by a rope!

We whooshed into the sky, went high above the rest,

to a height where you couldn't see quite so much mess.

Away from this land without colour or brightness,

the land that is home – dead, dull and lifeless.

We flew through a hole in the sky, up ever so high,

to a place where small beasts live on nothing but pie,

where there's no one around to ask the reasons why.

We crossed through that plain and entered another,

where bats, birds, and bees and badgers can hover.

A strange place called What, Where or Whenever,

a region between good and bad weather,

a whole world that floats in the ridge of a thousand-ton feather.

We came out of an opening, through the nose of a whale,

shot into the sky amongst powder and shale,

into a place you can't fathom; a world out of scale.

Where bricks, dogs and mortar spew out of a whale;

where meteors and mountains are in the slime of a snail;

where the slugs and the snores are attached at the pores

and where getting a cat in a bag is so easy you can't fail.

Where large inches and sharp pinches

cook small finches in the cold of deep fridges.

Where nothing adds up the way you think it should

and to predict any outcome is a do that that nobody could.

For example:

You put the beeble in the babble and it comes out as a scrabble.

You put the weeble in the wabble and it comes out as a squabble!

Then you try it all again and it comes out just like Zen!

Well then!

It is a strange and outlandish thing!

Like the flap of a wing that's learned how to sing,

new and exciting like the machine that goes ping!

A thing we'd all have like a neighbourhood fling

(but would never admit to for the shame it might bring).

A perverse and unexpected turn!

An avenue down which you're likely to burn!

But it's something inevitable, inescapable!

I mean, why wouldn't you? How else would you learn?

Okay, now that nastiness is out of the way

it's time we moved on, wouldn't you say?

You've had your fun now, got it out of your system,

so getting on with the show should not be a problem.

It is of the utmost importance, you must understand,

that we focus and concentrate on the matter in hand.

“We're here to do a job!” came the Colour Catcher's shout.

“The world of beauty and colour is on the way out!”

“Oh dear!” I replied. “But what can we do,

before the whole land is resemblant of poo?”

“It's a bad situation, that much is sure,

but it's not the first time, this happened once before.

It's not hopeless, you'll see. There's much to be done,

Just hold onto me. Let's have some fun!”

And with that the Catcher went into a dive,

and my heart went thumping and tumbling along,

reminding me that I'm alive!

Reminding me: I AM INDEED ALIVE!

“There! Up ahead!” came the Colour Catcher's shout,

and I looked up to see what he was shouting about.

We entered a storm cloud of unbelievable size

and then to my shock and eternal surprise,

a sea of new colours entered my eyes!

“There's one!” came the Colour Catcher's cry,

as a big whisp of orange swept across the sky.

“And there!” he said. “Look what I've seen!”

as he pointed to a purplish pink puff of green.

All around us, the colours were awash

with rich hue and mixed colouration;

plenty to stimulate a sleeping imagination;

enough to paint a mural across every nation;

something to be remembered throughout the generations.

It was vivid, intense and it hardly made sense!

I was amid a swirl of unusual, kaleidoscopic, psychedelic pigments!

They were blooming, jazzy, brilliant and bright;

that multi-coloured maelstrom made one hell of a sight!

Just seeing it would keep you going all night

and its glare would break up the most furious fight.

It could calm all disquiet, could quell every beast.

It was so full of colour, it could fill in for a feast!

“But how is he catching it?” I thought to myself.

“There's no nets, no buckets, not even one shelf.”

I asked him,

“If we can't take this back with us then how will we share?”

You've got no containers, not even Tupperware.”

He laughed then and answered,

“Ho ho, dear boy! I use the best retainer nature has to offer,

better than any money box or security coffer!

“Haven't you figured it out?”

He said, as I looked all about.

“My boy, I thought you might realise,

the container I'm using is your head and your eyes!

You've seen enough now to replenish all life,

so go home to your world of troubles and strife.

You can paint the whole place and you won't need to try,

you'll spread lots of colour from the hills to the sky.

Everywhere you walk will be cheerful and well,

as you tread a path of bright colour through a dreary grey hell.”